


an interval somewhere very near (or Bahorel and Jehan are mercenaries. IN SPACE)

by Villainyandgoodcheekbones



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Jehan kicks some ass, Other, and there are Brick-allusions galore!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-26
Updated: 2013-03-26
Packaged: 2017-12-06 13:44:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/736334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Villainyandgoodcheekbones/pseuds/Villainyandgoodcheekbones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I wrote a Firefly AU. Bahorel and Jehan were partners. This is more or less how that came to be</p>
            </blockquote>





	an interval somewhere very near (or Bahorel and Jehan are mercenaries. IN SPACE)

People ask him what he does for a living. He says he’s a lawyer. A prosecutor.

In a way, he’s not even lying. He asks questions of criminals, bad people, to make sure that they don’t get away with what they’ve done.

It’s just that they’re usually tied to a chair when he does. And he gets paid by the head, not the hour. But he did study law, once. That was a long time ago. Not many people know that, not even here, where everybody knows him and the bartender shoots him a half-fond glare as soon as he walks in and says “You bastard, you start anything in here, and I’ll gun you down myself.” He grins, leaning on the counter. “I mean it, Bahorel.”

“I would never.”

“You’re a fucking liar.”

Bahorel’s not a _fucking_ liar. Not unless somebody’s offering. What he is, is between jobs. What he is, is bored (what he isn’t, is worried; Hucheloup is a fine bartender, but fuck , the man can’t shoot to save his life). He’s not _planning_ to start a fight, per se.

But if a fight just so happened to break out in his general vicinity…

Well, a man had every right to defend himself. Trouble is, nothing’s looking likely. Everybody’s cheerful and lively and _getting along_. Even LeCabuc, who you can usually rely on to be a hell-raising son-of-bitch, is on his best behavior, buying drinks for a pretty blond in the corner. A blond who’s actually _blushing_ every time LeCabuc swings around.

It makes a lovely picture, watching that slim neck reddening under a blond braid. Very lovely. It’s peaceful.

Peaceful is boring. He hates peaceful.

Bahorel is left to nurse his drink in disgusted apathy. It’s maybe an hour, maybe more, and there’s nowhere else to go for miles, not on this shit-planet, but his ears finally prick up at the sound of a promising “Please, no. I couldn’t possibly.” It’s the little blond, eyes cast down as LeCabuc leans in too close. And he’s not really paying attention to what LeCabuc says next, because LeCabuc never really says anything worth listening to, but he has one hand on the little blond’s shoulder now, and the other on a petite thigh and Bahorel hears “Please. Don’t touch me.”

Well, that’s as good an excuse as any, and better than most. So he peels himself away from the bar, cracking his knuckles, ready to hammer some sense of decency into LeCabuc’s twisted skull.

The blond beats him to it. Before he’s even halfway across the room, the blond’s on her–no, _his_ , (wasn’t expecting that) feet, pistol in hand, and LeCabuc is reeling as the butt of it _cracks_ across his temple. It’s all downhill from there.

It’s everything Bahorel was hoping for, really. Bottles are breaking, and he’s pretty damn sure someone’s nose just did too, and Hucheloup is shouting ineffectually from behind the bar, and fuck if that boy with his braid doesn’t pistol-whip LeCabuc _again_ , laying him out cold on the floor. Bahorel loses track of him after that, but when everything's over, he's standing with broken glass all around his feet, braid half-undone but not mark on him, chest heaving, with blood on his waistcoat that isn’t his.

Bahorel nods.

He nods back, smiling.

And the boy, with his braid half-undone, picks his way through the wreckage and offers Hucheloup a devastatingly sincere and heartfelt apology, and a stack of Alliance credits the size of a goddamn brick. Then he leaves.

Next time Bahorel sees him, it’s as a Bounty Alert, his hologrammed face flickering ghost-green with an almost terrifying large number under it.

There are a lot of zeroes.

A _lot._

But there aren’t any words. There is not a single word to explain why a pretty little thing with a braid whose _wanted picture_ looks bashful has a price on his head that could buy a country. And that’s _interesting_. Bahorel rubs a hand along his jaw, feeling the stubble scrape under his palm. He grins.

“Jean Prouvaire, huh?”

Bahorel doesn’t have a ship, so he hitches a ride on the _SERGEANT OF WATERLOO_ and spends more time than he cares to think about hauling boxes whose contents he doesn’t know. They drop him off on Toulon.

The third time he meets Jean Prouvaire, he’s on his knees, with cable cutting into his bound wrists and blood streaked across his cheek, starting at his hairline and running down into his beard. Although to be fair, there were six of them, and he got through three and a half before they brought him down. Against Patron-Minette, that’s not bad.

Jean Prouvaire comes in through the roof and takes out two and a half. The last nearly gets the jump on him, but Bahorel kicks the man’s legs out from under him and smashes a booted heel into his teeth when he falls. Jean Prouvaire cuts the cable, and for a moment, they just look at each other. Then Bahorel nods. Jean Prouvaire nods back, smiling. He presses three different palms to a data pad, and it beeps a confirmation. Jean Prouvaire looks back and blushes. Then he leaves.

The fourth time they meet, Bahorel pins him against a wall, arms behind his back and says “Jean Prouvaire, you are wanted for –”

“I remember you” says Jean Prouvaire, and he snaps his head back. Bahorel falls back, nose bleeding. Jean Prouvaire has his pistol out, fixed on the space between his eyes. Bahorel has his own in hand, aiming at Prouvaire’s skinny bird-cage of a chest.

“How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again” says Jean Prouvaire, head cocked to one side. His voice is soft and lilting, as if reciting something. He brings up his data pad with his free hand, and Bahorel finds himself staring at his own face, flickering ghost-green with a number under it. There are a lot of zeroes.

Huh. Must’ve grown since he checked last, then. Bahorel licks his lips and slowly, slowly lowers his gun. He nods.

Jean Prouvaire nods back, smiling. Bahorel snorts.

“What did you _do?_ ”. Jean Prouvaire tells him.

“There were children,” he says. It’s as good a reason as any, and better than most. “What did _you_ do?”

“She was my sister.”

Jean Prouvaire, who tells him that it’s “Jehan” to friends, _does_ have a ship. It’s tiny, and what little empty space there is has been given over to books and vines with bright, lurid blooms. But the controls are simple enough. Jehan folds Bahorel’s hand around the lever to the main thrust, and says “Take us out.” Then he starts to leave.

Bahorel raises an eyebrow. “The fuck are you going?”

Jehan smiles.

“To look at the stars”


End file.
